


But Initially He Wanted to Be A Pirate

by S_IRIS



Series: We Two Boys Together Clinging [1]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Betrayal, Confessions, Epic Battles, M/M, Past Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Pirate Sherlock, Sherlock is a Drunkie not a Junkie, Unrequited Love, all sea myths are true
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:23:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1414996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_IRIS/pseuds/S_IRIS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Pirates Of The Caribbean. Non movie-compliant. A little series/Sherlock canon-compliant.</p><p>Just like to say one thing, if you're thinking that I'm simply going to rewrite the Curse of The Black Pearl, no, not exactly that. The start is that, but the plot is very different. Very.</p><p>For example... there's no betraying first mate, and there's no cursed pirates... but there is a curse nonetheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

"...drink up me hearties, yo, ho...

Yo, ho, yo, ho, a pirate's life for me

Yo, ho, yo, ho, it's a pirate's life

for me..."

A gray, impenetrable wall of fog slowly shifts away to reveal a ship, massive and sombre, the Winged Victory maidenhead looming. It's a British dreadnought, the H.M.S. Dauntless. Formidable, frightening, twenty-five gun ports on a side, and rail guns to boot. From somewhere comes the faint sound of a little girl's voice, singing, slow tempo, almost under her breath. She stands at the bow railing, gazing dreamily, her voice carrying itself over the treacherous calm waters.

"...drink up me hearties, yo, ho...

We kidnap and ravage and don't give a hoot

drink up me hearties, yo, ho

yo ho

A pirate's life for me..."

Her eyes are misty green, with blonde hair elegantly swept up. She's wearing a golden delicate antique renaissance lace trimmed gown. Her eyes hold a grim fascination with unpredictability of the obscuring mist in front of her beyond her as she sings, her head cocked to one side, staring wide-eyed, like she's possessed.

"...We extort, we pilfer, we filch, we sack..."

Listening to such words roll from her innocent young tongue is almost unnerving. She's startled by a large hand clutching her shoulder.

"Quiet, missy!" The speaker is a lanky youth, his voice almost frightful, "Pirates sail these waters. You don't want to call 'em down on us, do you?" She refuses to be intimidated, instead, she watches him with the same possessed stare.

"Mister Lestrade, that will do." A voice rings out clearly from behind the two of them. It belongs to Captain James Sholto, a dashing young man, Royal Navy to the core, glares sternly at Lestrade. Standing beside him is Governor Arthur Morstan, a man of obvious high station, brass buttons on his thick blue jacket. He is the little girl Mary's father.

"She was singing about pirates!" He points an accusatory finger at the twelve year old girl, "Bad luck to sing about pirates, with us mired in this unnatural fog-- mark my words."

Sholto's face and posture is unnaturally stiff. Not a muscle jumping, "Consider then marked." He looks away, "On your way."

Lestrade is obedient as ever, "Aye, Cap'n. Bad luck to have a woman on board, too. Even a mini'ture one." He returns to his deck-swabbing duties, surreptitiously takes a quick swig from flask.

"I think it would be rather exciting to meet a pirate." Mary isn't afraid to speak her mind, even when she knows that her opinion won't be valued.

"Think again, Miss Morstan. Vile and dissolute creatures, the lot of them. I intend to see to it that any man who sails under a pirate flag, or wears a pirate's brand, gets what he deserves: a short drop and a sudden stop."

Mary doesn't know what Sholto means by 'a short drop and a sudden stop' means. Lestrade helpfully mimes a man being hung. She gasps, almost horrified.

"Captain Sholto... I appreciate your fervour," Governor Morstan tries to be as diplomatic as possible, "but I am concerned about the effect this subject will have upon my daughter."

He swallows, "My apologies, Governor."

"Actually I find it all very fascinating!" Mary pipes in.

"And that's what concerns me. Mary, dear... we will be landing in Port Royal very soon, and beginning our new lives. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we comport ourselves as befits our class and station?"

Chastised, she turns away, to look out over the bow rail. I still think it would be exciting to meet a pirate, she muses. The fog still hems in the ship; very little of the sea is visible -

\-- but suddenly, a figure comes into view. A young boy, floating on his back in the otherwise empty water. There is nothing to show where he came from, or how he came to be there. She points at the waters, shouting her words to the rest of the crew urgently.

"Look! A boy! There's a boy in the water!"

Captain Sholto and Governor Morstan turn around to see the little figure floating, his hands clutching a wooden plank.

"Man overboard!" Sholto shouts out loud.

"Boy overboard!" Mary joins in as well, very happy to give instructions like the captain, "Man the ropes! Fetch a hook! Haul him out of there!"

Quick movement and activity on the deck. Sailors use a boathook to snag the boy. He isn't breathing. Sholto and Morstan haul him aboard, and lay him on the deck, pressing his chest and resuscitating him. The boy still doesn't breathe. Mary sidles in for a closer look, her face falling as she takes pity on his small body. One final compress and the boy coughs.

"He's breathing now." They all heave a sigh of relief.

"Mary, Mother of God!"

Everyone turns at Lestrade' exclamation. Attention is turned away from the boy. The sea is no longer empty. Wreckage from a ship litters the water... along with the bodies of its crew. What is left of the ship's hull is ablaze, a ragged British flag hanging limply from the stern.

"What happened here?"

"An explosion in the powder magazine, most likely," says Sholto, "Merchant vessels run heavily armed."

"Lot of good it did them..."Everyone's thinking it! I'm saying it! Pirates!"

Governor Morstan shakes his head, laughing humourless, "There is no proof of that! It could have been an accident. Captain, these men were protection. If there is even the slightest chance one of those poor devils is still alive, we cannot abandon them!"

"Of course not, Governor," he turns away, "Come about and strike the sails! Unleash the boats! Gunnery crew... jackets off the cannons!" Then turning to him, he says reassuringly, "Hope for the best...prepare for the worst."

The Governor nods, his hand instinctively reaching for that of Mary.

"Move the boy aft. We'll need the deck clear."

They lift the boy. The governor pulls Mary away from the rail, away from the hideous scene in the water.

"Mary, I want you to accompany the boy," he tries to put on a smile for his daughter's sake, "He's in your charge now. You'll watch over him?"

Mary nods gravely. The governor's face falls and he hurries away to help unstow the longboat. The sailors lay the boy gently on the poop deck, behind the wheel, then hurry off. Mary kneels down besides the boy. He is roughly her age. His good looks are not lost on her. She reaches out, gently brushes the blond hair from his eyes --

Suddenly, he grabs her wrist, awake now. Mary is startled, but their eyes lock. She takes his hand in hers.

"It's okay," she gives him a little smile, "My name is Mary Morstan."

The boy is still scared, but is placated a bit upon seeing her, "John Watson."

"I'm watching over you, John. Sleep."

He clutches her hands, then slips back into unconsciousness. His movement has opened the collar of his shirt. Mary sees he wears a chain around his neck. She tugs it free, revealing--

A gold medallion. One side is blank. She turns it over to see a skull gazing up at her. Vaguely Aztec in design, but to her eyes, it means one thing only.

"You're a pirate!"

She glances back at the crew. Sees Sholto, giving orders, moving toward her. She looks back at John, instant fascination arising in her - and comes to a quick decision. She takes the medallion from around his neck and hides it behind her as Sholto approaches her.

"Did he speak?"

"His name is John Watson. That's all I've found out."

Sholto nods and hurries off. Mary steals away to the stern of the ship, examining her prize - the gold medallion. A wisp of wind, and she looks up -

Out over the sea, moving through the fog, silent as a ghost, is a large sailing ship, a schooner - with black sails. Mary stares, too frightened to move, or cry out. The ship is obscured by the fog it as it passes - but not the mizzen-top... and there hangs the frightening skull and crossbones of the Jolly Roger.

Mary looks from it to the medallion - the skull on the flag is the same as the one on the medallion. She imagines fog surrounding and closing in on the black ship - except for the black flag. As Mary watches, the skull appears to turn and grin at her -

Mary shuts her eyes tight -


	2. Pirates - Ye Be Warned

Eight years later, in the Governor's mansion in Port Royal, Mary's eyes snap open, soft golden morning sunshine falling on her face from the half-open windows, still looking like a princess even in her slumber. She is twenty one years old, still abed at nine in the morning, her hand clasping her pillows from the nightmare. She is shaken, startled but not fearful of the vision she had been seeing in her sleep. Mary slowly looks as far out the corner of her eyes as possible without moving. Might there be someone in the room with her, looming over her, ready to kill her if she moved?

Her fingers steal themselves towards the dagger she keeps under her bed, without the knowledge of her father or her maids. She turns, ready for anything, ready to defend herself, ready to kill her attacker. She is alone, to her utmost relief, and sighs to herself.

Mary sits up, turns up the flame on an oil lamp besides the canopied bed. She carries the lamp across the room to a dressing table, sits down. She pulls one of the small drawers all the way out, carefully reaches into a concealed space, a secret compartment beneath it and removes...

The medallion. She has kept it all this time, for all the eight years. It has a fine film of dust coated over it, but it has not lost its lustre, or its sense of menace. She gazes at it, twirling the chain around her finger and brushing the dust away from its surface. She goes to the mirror and puts it on, looking at her reflection in the mirror. She still looks like royalty even in her sleeping clothes. She imagines herself in pirate's clothes, towering over the ocean, invincible and free. Mary looks at the lens on the oil lamp, and watches how distorted the flames look in the refraction. Although she has only been taught the most basic and the most rudimentary of skills required for primary education, while the majority of her time has been spent grooming her into a fine lady, she still possesses the inquisitiveness of a child, the same twelve year old she used to be once upon a time, and needless to say, her lifelong fascination with pirates.

Suddenly, there's a booming knock on the door of her bedroom. Mary almost jumps, startled, and rushes to her bed to retrieve her dressing down, knocking over a chair as the Governor calls out.

"Mary! Is everything all right?... Are you decent?"

"Yes, yes!" She cries,

Her father enters, carrying a large box, smiling fondly at his daughter as Mary's uniformed maids enter behind him, curtseying decently to her. The medallion is hidden in the bodice of her slip as she wraps the dressing gown around herself.

"Still abed at this hour? It's a beautiful day!"

One of her maids go and throw the window open. It is indeed. Beneath a blue sky lies the bucolic town of Port Royal, built on a natural harbour. On a bluff at the mouth of the harbour stands Fort Charles, its stone parapets lined with cannon.

"I have a gift for you," says he, opening the gift box, and displaying for her a gorgeous velvet dress. She lets out an admiring gasp.

"It's... beautiful," and then she turns suspiciously to her father, "May I enquire as to the occasion?"

The Governor gives her a smirk, "Does a father require an occasion to dote upon his daughter?"

Mary happily takes it, disappears behind a screened- off dressing area. Her maids follow, carrying the box. The Governor begins again, this time a little tentative.

"Although...I did think you could wear it to the ceremony today."

"The ceremony?"

"Captain Sholto's promotion ceremony."

Mary peeks around the screen, as if to confirm her father's words. Her eyes twinkle with appreciation, "I knew it!"

"Or, rather, Commodore Sholto," he responds proudly as Mary returns to the fitting and the corset. Governor Morstan takes another step towards the window, not wanting to take anything approaching to a liberty with his daughter, "...a fine gentleman, don't you think?"

There's no answer. It maybe because of the tight bindings of the corset, or maybe because of her father's words. Either way, her eyes go wide and she gasps in surprise.

"He fancies you, you know."

Mary holds her hair and the medallion (still around her neck) out of the way as the maid cinches her into a corset over her slip. The maid has her foot in Mary's back as she pulls the laces tight. She gasps at the pain, or at the sudden lack of oxygen or again... maybe upon learning that Captain Sholto fancies her.

"Mary?" Governor Morstan's voice comes out concerned, "How's it coming?"

"It's... difficult to tell."

Her father thinks for a moment at what she meant, or whether she answered _his_ question or not. After a beat, he decides that she didn't answer his real question and instead responds with, "I'm told that dress is the very latest fashion in London."

Mary speaks with difficulty, holding her breath, "Well, women in London must have learned how to survive without breathing."

The maids are finished. Mary takes a breath and winces. A butler appears in the doorway of the room.

"Governor? Dr. Watson is waiting for you downstairs."

"Ah, yes," Governor Morstan accompanies him out of the room as he checks the time in his pocket watch, "Must go now."

* * *

Dr. John Watson, handsome, with a watchful demeanour that gives him weight beyond his years, and dressed in his middle class clothes, stands in the foyer, looking very out of place in the posh surroundings, and knowing it. He holds a small case, presumably containing his doctor's equipment. He polishes the toes of his boots on the back of his calves, but it doesn't help.

"Good day to you, sir," he greets the Governor coming down the stairs.

"Ah, Dr. Watson, good day to you too. Thank you very much for coming. Pray sit down... I am very concerned about-"

He rolls his sleeve back to reveal a developing soreness in his skin, red and disgusting. John takes a look at it, as if used to such skin disorders, "Nothing to worry about, Governor. You have a weed growing in your garden perhaps. These rashes are caused from poison oak and similar things," he started writing down on a paper his prescription as Governor Morstan started making conversation with him, "And Doctor Watson, I heard that you were called to Cummingham's residence the previous week. How's their little son now?"

John smiles amiably, while writing down the treatment, "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say, sir, him being my patient."

Governor Morstan gives a short laugh, "Of course, yes, doctor. Forgive me for my impertinence, but I did hear that they had a witch haunting the house... you know, folks like us, we can't really... I mean, whenever that happens... whenever a witch trips upon a household, people die."

John hands him the prescription, "Well then, death follows when a doctor arrives in your house, isn't it?"

The Governor pats him affectionately on his shoulder like an old comrade, "Of course, yes. Always the witty young man. But I doubt that such a poisonous weed should be growing in _my_ garden."

John smiles at him politely, "Otherwise you wouldn't have got the rashes on your forearm, which is always clearly  hidden under your sleeve at all times when you're outside your estate.... Anyway, avoid all attempts at scratching the affected area and... do make this preparation and dissolve it in lukewarm water for fifteen minutes, and then dip clean linen in it and apply it gently on the skin-"

He stops speaking abruptly, staring past the Governor who is clearly impressed by John's reasoning -

Mary stands on the stairs. Granted, the dress may be painful to wear, but holy smokes, she looks absolutely gorgeous. John tries to speak, but can't, finding himself completely besotted by the fine woman in front of him. He gives up, smiles to himself, and simply nods emphatically. Governor Morstan forsakes his treatment and rolls his sleeve back down, "Mary, you look stunning!"

Completely disregarding her father upon seeing the young handsome doctor beside him, Mary rushes down the stairs to greet him enthusiastically, her hand going to the chain around her throat on its own accord, where the medallion is hidden in the bodice of her dress.

"John! It's so good to see you again... I had a dream about you last night!"

John's eyes narrow, and he reacts with undisguised surprise. It's clear that he considers himself below her station, "Really?!"

Meanwhile, her father chastises, "Mary, this is hardly appropriate -"

But she simply ignores her father again, "About the day we met. Do you remember?"

John looks like he is honoured to be even reminded by her of that day where she had saved him, "How could I forget it, Miss Morstan?"

"John, how many times must I ask you to call me Mary?"

"At least once more, Miss Morstan. As always."

Mary's smile drops. She looks openly disappointed and hurt by his response.

"Well said, doctor! There's a someone who understands propriety. Now, we must be going. I'll do as you advice, doctor. Thank you very much."

John notes Mary's expression, and his face falls too, the colour draining from his cheeks. He feels very sorry for what he has said, but her father had been there in front of her. There wasn't anything else he could've said without upsetting the Governor. She fixes him with a hard look, "Good day, Dr. Watson."

With that, she sweeps out of there regally, leaving an apologetic John behind, who bows low as she straightens her back, gathers her skirts and strides past him and out of the door which her father holds open for her.

The Governor follows her out of the door as John calls out, "Good day."

As the doors of the mansion close behind him, he watches Mary being helped into the carriage, and he almost whispers so that no one can hear him, "Mary."

In the carriage, the Governor glowers at her daughter, "Dear, I do hope you demonstrate a bit more decorum in front of Commodore Sholto. After all, it is only through his efforts that Port Royal has become at all civilized, in the least."

Mary doesn't allow herself to look at John's figure as he stands at the doors of her mansion, "Yes, father."

* * *

At the mouth of the Port Royal harbour, the skeletal remains of four pirates, still clad in buccaneer rags, hang from gallows erected on a rocky promontory. There is a fifth, unoccupied gallows, bearing a sign:

PIRATES - YE BE WARNED

The top of a billowing sail passes regally in front of them. On the landward face of the sail, apparently high in the rigging, is a man for whom the term 'swashbuckling rogue' was coined: Captain Altamont, tall, imposing, and dashing even in his unkempt clothes and wild untamed long curly hair flowing across his face, as a consequence of plundering relentlessly through the seas for years. His eyes twinkle with conquest and the promise of challenge at the new land out in front of him. His long fingers wrap themselves around the rigging, looking almost like a king against the sunrise, like a saviour instead of a pirate or a vandal.

He gazes keen-eyed at the display as they pass. He raises a tankard in salute. Suddenly, something below catches his attention. He grabs the ropes and jumps from the rigging . Contrary to what he was imagining, his is ship is not an imposing three-master, but just a small fishing dory with a single sail, ploughing through the water - the Jolly Mon.

And it leaks. Which is why he has the tankard: to bail.

Altamont steps back to the tiller, and using a single sheet to control the sail, and the Jolly Mon comes around the promontory, the whole of Port Royal laid out before him.

The huge British dreadnought, H.M.S. Dauntless dominates the bay. But Altamont's attention is on a different ship: the H.M.S. Interceptor, a small sleek vessel with rail guns and a mortar in the middle of the main deck. It is tied up at the Navy landing, at the base of the cliffs below Fort Charles.

At the docks, seamen are loading their ships with goods and livestock, when they see Altamont's little boat slowly sinking into the water as he smoothly and with no wasted movement hauls down the sail, stows it, guides the dory alongside a dock. What looks like awe plastered on their faces is only amazement at the ruffian's example of the famous saying: the Captain goes down with the ship.

The Harbourmaster, a long ledger tucked under his arm, is there to catch a line and help Altamont tie up. He watches him with incredulity.

"If you're out rolling scuppers in this tub, you're either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid."

But Altamont only gives him a toothy smile, revealing white teeth in spite of the condition of his clothes, "Mind you, my dear fellow. Bravery and stupidity be synonyms, you don't need t' repeat 'em."

He promptly starts up the dock, strapping on his sword belt; besides the scabbard, it also carries a compass, pistol and small powder horn. The Harbourmaster cuts him off.

"It's a shilling for the dock space, and you're going to have to give me your name."

Altamont takes his hat off and rubs at his untidy moustache, seeing the man's fingers rolling a coin between them. He smirks to himself, realising that the man must be money minded.

"What say you t' three shillin's, and we forget t' name?"

He tosses three shillings onto the ledger. The Harbourmaster considers, then takes the coins in his hands and deposits them back into Altamont's pocket and pats it, "I'll be sure to call for the colonel, my dear sir."

Altamont bites the inside of his cheeks in annoyance. Of course, he realises, there's a child behind him. What man would take bribe in front of a child? He always misses something. Something to do with sentiment. He throws his scanning gaze up and down the man, and smiles at his good luck, "And I'll be aye t' tell him that t' window in your bedroom be t' t' right, and always faces t' sunrise, and that you're sleepin' with his buxom beauty in t' same bedroom."

The Harbourmaster looks startled for a moment, and then welcomes him with a strained smile as he grudgingly accepts a shilling from Altamont, "Welcome to Port Royal, Mr. Smith."

Altamont gives him a half-salute as he goes past, scowling distastefully at the most common surname in the world as if it does not befit his Highness, and picking up the small pouch full of coins on his way. He looks across the water toward the Interceptor, and smiles. Above the Interceptor, among the parapets of Fort Charles, a ceremony is underway.

* * *

With choreographed precision, Governor Morstan, smiling proudly, removes a sleek sword and scabbard from a navy blue presentation case, held by a uniformed Navy man. He slides the sword into the scabbard, holds it out vertically to the now Commodore Sholto, in full dress uniform.

Sholto grasps the scabbard above Governor Morstan's hand, and Governor Morstan lets go. Sholto draws the sword, flourishes the sword, and snaps the blade up in front of his face. Governor Morstan steps forward, pins a medal to Sholto's jacket, steps back.

Sholto nods, turns smartly and nods to his fellow officers, turns again and nods to the audience, the dignitaries, merchants, plantation owners, their families. Another flourish, and he returns the sword to its scabbard.

The silence is broken by loud applause. In the audience, Mary doesn't look so good, out beneath the hot sun. She applauds briefly, then winces, discreetly trying to adjust the corset through the material of the dress, then resumes clapping, trying to hide her discomfort.

* * *

In the Port Royal Navy Docks, Two sailors on sentry duty take advantage of what little shade there is on the dock. But when Altamont saunters up, they are immediately on alert.

"This dock is off-limits to civilians."

Altamont feigns ignorance, "Oh, I be terribly sorry. If I see one, I shall inform you immediately."

With an entirely fake smile, he saunters past them confidently towards the Interceptor, but his path is blocked by the two sailors, "Hold it there, you!" One of them orders him. Music drifts down from Fort Charles. Altamont looks up and shields his eyes.

"Some sort o' to-do up at t' fort, eh?" he asks conversationally, "How come two. . . erm," he studies them with distaste, "upstanding gentlemen such as yourselves did not merit an invitation?"

One of them stammers as they try to reason it out, "No... someone has to make sure this dock stays off-limits to civilians."

He surveys them curiously, and then the Interceptor, gazing at it like a child gazes at a dinosaur skeleton in the museum, "This must be some important boat."

"Ship," one of the sentries corrects him automatically.

"Aye," he smiles, trying his best not to be bored with the dull conversation, "Ship."

"Captain Sholto's made it his flagship," says the other proudly, "He'll use it to hunt down the last dregs of piracy on the Spanish Lake."

"Commodore," the first one interrupts, while Altamont listens to their conversation intently. The best way to catch gossip is from bored sentries on duty, according to him.

"Right. Commodore Sholto."

Altamont claps in a drunken, lousy imitation of appreciative applause, "That be a fine goal, I'm aye... But it seems t' me a ship like thar," says he, indicating to the Dauntless, "makes this one here just a wee superfluous."

"Oh, the Dauntless is the power in these waters, true enough," one of the sailors lets out a short laugh, "but there's no ship that can match the Interceptor for speed."

Now it seems as if Altamont wants to come across to them as a drunk, as he slurs very slightly at his words, "That so? I've heard o' one, supposed t' be smartly, nigh uncatchable. . ." he pauses before saying the name, "The Black Pearl."

One of them scoffs at the name, "There's no real ship as can match the Interceptor."

The other one turns to look at him weirdly, "The Black Pearl is a real ship."

"No, it's not."

"Yes it is. I've seen it."

"You've seen it?"

"Yes."

Altamont sees them entering into an argument, and murmurs, "Best leave you t' it, me good officers," and sneaks out of there. The sentries, meanwhile continue to argue just to pass their time.

"You've seen THE Black Pearl?"

"Yes."

"You haven't seen it."

" Yes, I have."

"You've seen a ship with black sails that's crewed by the damned and captained by a man so evil that hell itself spat him back out?"

The other sailor looks confused for a moment, "...no..."

"No."

"But I've seen a ship with black sails," he replies, still confused.

"Oh, and no ship that's not crewed by the damned and captained by a man so evil hell itself spat him back out could possibly have black sails and therefore couldn't possibly be any ship other than the Black Pearl. Is that what you're saying?"

His eyes narrow, ". . . No."

They both turn back to where Altamont was there, "Like I said, there's no real ship that-"

They look around in confusion and spot Altamont standing at the wheel of the Interceptor, casually examining the mechanism.

"You! Get away from there! You don't have permission to be aboard there!"

Altamont looks over in exaggeratedly innocent surprise, like a baby ready to burst into tears. The sailors hurry toward the gangplank and point their rifles at him. He hold his hands up and spreads his palm apologetically.

"I'm sorry. It's just such a pretty boat... Ship," says he, stroking the rudder as if it were an animal waiting to be tamed. The sailors study him suspiciously.

"What's your name?"

"Smith... or Smithy if you don't like it."

One of the sailors rolls his eyes, "What's your business in Port Royal, 'Mr. Smith'?"

"And no lies!"

Altamont makes his best kicked puppy face, "None at all?"

"NO!"

He rolls his eyes and drawls, coming up closer to them and smiling maniacally. The sailors back away even with their rifles, even if Altamont is almost unarmed, "Very well. You've rumbled me. I confess: I intend to commandeer one of these ships, pick up a crew in Tortuga, and go out on the account, do a little honest pirating. Happy?"

The sailors look grossed, "No lies!"

"I think he's telling the truth."

Altamont stares at them incredulously, wondering how they aren't buying it, after being so very predictably stupid.

"He's not telling the truth."

"He may be."

"If he were telling the truth he wouldn't have told us."

Altamont decides to help the poor wretched souls with a very obvious hint, "Unless, o' course, he knew you wouldn't believe t' truth if he told it t' you."

* * *

Mary, pale and perspiring, fans herself weakly, oblivious to the music and chatter. Sholto approaches her, "May I have a moment?"

He extends his arm. She takes it. He walks her away from the party, toward the parapet. A rather too long of a silence as Sholto works up his courage, "You look lovely, Mary."

Mary frowns, unable to focus, her vision blacking out as a result of the lack of oxygen. Sholto mistakes her expression as disapproval, "I apologize if I seem forward but I must speak my mind."

She pays no attention to his words as she clutches her stomach and tries to breath against the bindings of the corset.

"This promotion confirms that I have accomplished the goals I set for myself in my career," he speaks slowly, working his courage up as he goes, "But it also casts into sharp relief that which I have not achieved. The thing all men most require: a marriage to a fine woman."

He turns to her, who is trying her best to look at him while fanning herself most urgently, "You have become a fine woman, Mary."

"I can't breathe!"

Sholto smiles to himself, blushing a little and turning away to hide it, "Yes, I'm a bit nervous myself-"

Mary loses her balance, stumbles away from Sholto. She reaches a hand out to the parapet to steady herself, but it slides off, and then she vanishes over the wall. Gone. He turns back to hear a mighty splash of water, "Mary?!" And then he realises what has happened.

"Mary!"

He instantly sheds his Navy jacket, preparing to dive after her to save her, but two of his officers come up from behind him and restrain him, having heard the splashing, "Sir! The rocks! It's a miracle she missed them!"

Sholto shakes off his arm, looks down -- and realizes that the lieutenant is right. He jumps down and runs, a man of action, pushes everyone away and towards the docks to save her.

* * *

In the Interceptor, where Altamont is showing off by telling the two sailors on sentry duty, reacts to the sight of Mary plummeting into the sea.

"Aren't you going to save her?" He asks, in a feeble attempt to regain the boat... ship.

They shake their heads, "I can't swim!"

Altamont grits his teeth and rolls his eyes, "Pride of the King's Navy, you are! Bloody sailors!"

Above where Mary struggles in the water. Sholto and several other men pick their way down the cliffs. They are too far away to get to her in time.

"You're the one who's talking about being brave!" they reply indignantly. They do have a point, no matter how made up and untrue Altamont's stories were. Altamont has no choice, and it pisses him off.

"Fine," he growls, "Don't lose these."

He hands them his hat, his belt, his sword, his compass, and his jacket, and dives into the water, swimming towards Mary, and stops momentarily when he feels a current pass through him. He frowns, and spots the medallion around her neck, trying to swim free.

"Oh Lord!" he exclaims as he sees it glinting menacingly even through hazy vision.

A silence falls over Port Royal. At Fort Charles, The Union Jack flies, blown from an offshore breeze. Suddenly the wind dies, and the flag goes limp. On the docks, wood and metal fittings on lines bang against masts. The wind dies, and there is silence. A Caribe woman feeds clucking chickens, and she frowns when they all suddenly go quiet. A weather vane moves slightly in the wind. The wind stops, and all is still. And then it turns, and holds steady, the wind has picked up again, but now blows from the sea toward the land.

An old man pulls a rope line, pauses. He turns and gazes to the sky, frowning. The mangy hound at his side starts barking incessantly. The lines bang against the other sides of the masts, the wind far stronger now.

Altamont grins at the changes. The Black Pearl was coming. Time to be a hero now.


	3. An Appointment To Keep And Eventually Miss

The medallion hangs below Mary's unmoving form - and then Altamont is there. He wraps an arm around her and makes for the surface. He swims toward the dock, struggling. It is far more difficult than it should be. He stops his strokes, and they submerge.

Altamont realizes that it is Mary's heavy velvet dress that is weighing them down. He pulls at the buttons on the back, and they give way. He skins her out of the dress, and kicks away from it as they rise to the surface. The dress falls like a cloud into darkness.

"Ooh, there's a good girl," he gasps.

On the surface, Altamont swims with Mary, much more quickly. The sentries have reached the dock and they are there to help haul Mary out of the water. Altamont climbs up, exhausted with the effort. Mary is on her back; one of the sentries holds her arms above her head, pumping them. The latter one puts his cheek to her nose and mouth.

"Not breathing," he exclaims.

They look down and it seems hopeless as hell, Mary is dead and looks almost dead. But Altamont steps up, drawing a knife from its sheath.

"Move!" he cries out, shoving one of them away, he kneels over Mary, raises the knife and for one second it seems as if he is going to stab her - and both the soldiers are shocked and bemused - Altamont slits the corset down the middle, yanks it away. Mary remains still. And then, she coughs up water and gasps, choking on her first full breath. Altamont is relieved, and almost immediately, looks bored.

"I never would have thought of that," one of them quips.

He flips the knife and hands it hilt-first to one of them when he spots the medallion around her neck. Altamont catches it up in his hand, and frowns in recognition, the bored look gone from his face. Mary looks like a cat who has been caught stealing the goldfish out of the fish tank.

"Where did you get this?" He asks her, wondering how it ended up with a woman of all people, almost thinking if he knows her somehow, or if he owes her something

Before Mary can answer, the blade of a sword is at Altamont's throat - Sholto's new ceremonial sword, in fact, looking bright and sharp.

"On your feet," says Sholto, like a boss, and obviously, like a Commodore

It looks bad - Altamont standing over Mary with most of her clothes gone. He gets to his feet. The rest of Mary's erstwhile rescuers reach the scene, including Governor Morstan.

"Mary!" her father lunges forward to cover his daughter's modesty, "Are you all right?"

He strips off his jacket, drapes it around her.

"Yes - yes, I'm fine," she says, looking unmoved by her adventure and frankly irritated that her father is fussing over her, and then turns urgently to the newly appointed Commodore, "Commodore Sholto, do you really intend to kill my rescuer?"

Sholto looks at Altamont. He nods as best he can with a blade beneath his chin. Sholto sheathes his sword, and extends his hand.

I believe thanks are in order," says he, with a calculating expression.

Altamont takes Sholto's hand gingerly. They shake, and Sholto tightens his grip, yanks Altamont's arm toward him, then tears back the sleeve of Altamont's shirt, exposing a brand on Altamont's inner wrist: a large 'P.'

"Had a brush-up with the East India Company, did you... pirate?" He speaks triumphantly. Had he found a goldmine, greater joy couldn't have shined in his features. The others react in shock, but the sailors are well-trained, and in an instant, half a dozen pistols are aimed at Altamont. He stands there, still holding the corset. Governor Morstan's eyes widen with horror, and Altamont lowers it.

"Lynch the pirate," he exclaims as if a pirate is beneath to be called human, but Mary tries to override him, "Commodore I really must - "

"Keep your guns on him, men," he gives his orders, ignoring Mary, "Lieutenant, fetch some irons."

Sholto notices something else - below the 'P' brand is a tattoo: a small bird in flight across water.

"Well, well..." and his smile widens, but his expression is one of disgust, "Hector Altamont, isn't it?"

Mary stares at him, half in admiration, and half in disgust at the state if his clothes. Altamont winces at his name being taken with such bitterness, "Captain. Captain Altamont. If you please."

Sholto looks out at the bay, "I don't see your ship.... 'Captain'."

"He said he'd come to commandeer one," said one of the sentries who had helped haul Mary up.

"I told you he was telling the truth!" supplied the other one, "These are his, sir."

He holds out Altamont's pistol and belt. Altamont leans forward, not wanting his effects to be touched. Sholto takes the pistol, examines it, notes the powder horn on his belt.

"Extra powder, but no additional shot," says he mockingly.

Altamont shrugs. Sholto unhooks the compass from the belt, opens it. He frowns at the reading. Moves the compass this way and that, keeping it parallel to the ground. It always points at the Union Jack atop Fort Charles. Sholto looks at it and chuckles silently.

"It doesn't bear true," says he, with a condescending smirk, "Your patriotism is overwhelming."

Altamont looks away, a bit embarrassed. Not a very good hero to start with, he thinks. Sholto returns the compass to the belt and draws the sword half from the scabbard.

"And I half-expected it to be made of wood," he gives him a humourless smile, sliding it back into the scabbard, and hands it to one of his men. Governor Morstan smirks too, "To be precise, you've got a pistol with only one shot, a compass that doesn't point north... and no ship," he sneers and then his expression adopts a one of utter disgust, "You are without a doubt the worst pirate I have ever heard of."

"Ah," Altamont begins smugly, "but you have heard of me."

Sholto grits his teeth, and then drags him by the cleanest fibres of his buccaneer rags. The Lieutenant returns with shackles, and approaches Altamont.

"Carefully with those hands, Lieutenant. Don't want to muck up the brand, do we?"

Mary steps forward, marching forward angrily. Governor Morstan's jacket slips off her. She is unconcerned, but he is intent on putting it back on her.

"Commodore, I must protest!" She cries out, "Pirate or not, this man saved my life!"

"One good deed is not enough to redeem a man of a lifetime of wickedness, Mary."

Lieutenant snaps the manacles closed on Altamont's wrists while he is still holding the corset. Now that Altamont is safely chained, Sholto nods to his men. All but one stow their weapons, and two step forward. Altamont smirks, "Finally.

Lightning-quick, he snaps the corset around the hand and wrist of the man holding the pistol and yanks it. Before anyone can react to that, Altamont has the manacle chain wrapped around Mary's throat. She flails for her throat, and tries to elbow him in the gut, but he is too quick for that.

"Don't want to do that, do we?"

Pistols are drawn again, but now Mary serves as a shield. Sholto raises a cautioning hand to his men.

"Commodore Sholto..." he begins victoriously, "my pistol and belt. Now."

Sholto hesitates and balls his fists in frustration, looking from Mary to Altamont.

"Commodore!" He warns, pointing his newly gained pistol at her forehead. The sentry hands the pistol and belt to Sholto. He holds them out to Altamont.

"Mary - it is Mary?" he asks her smugly. Mary is more angry than frightened.

"Miss Morstan." She grits her teeth, trying to fight him.

"Miss Morstan, come now, we don't have all day."

She takes the belt and pistol from Sholto - Altamont's quicker than she is, and takes the pistol from her. He jerks her around so she is facing him, belly to belly.

"Now, if you'll be very kind?"

She figures out what he wants: put the belt on him, "You are despicable," she mutters as she works.

"It's remarkable how many people have called me that," he speaks, and Mary's earlier fascination with him is gone as her father's and Sholto's words turn out to be quite true, "and in the end they've been nothing but grateful, love."

"Oh really?"

He smiles smugly at Sholto, who decides that he cannot watch the scene, "Well, if you don't count the ones who I owe money or... my kidneys."

Done. He turns her again, and then backs up until he bumps against the cargo gantry, "Gentlemen... m'lady. .. you will always remember this as the day you almost caught Captain Hector Altamont."

He shoves Mary away, grabs a rope and pulls free a belaying pin - a counterweight, which is a cannon, drops and Altamont is lifted up to the middle of the gantry, where he grabs a second rope. Pistols fire, and miss obviously because we can't kill the hero, can we? Altamont swings out, out, out, away and around from the gantry.

Sholto has held his shot. With careful aim, he tracks Altamont's trajectory.

Altamont drops from the rope even as Sholto fires. His shot tears the rope as Altamont plummets past one of the gantry's guy lines, he snaps the length of manacle chain over the line and grabs hold of the far loop and slides down the line and drops to the deck of a ship. He runs, leaping to another ship, then out of sight.

"On his heels! Lieutenant, bring a squad down from the fort!" Then he turns tenderly to Mary, "Mary, are you -

"Yes, I'm alright, I'm fine!" She assures him, completing his sentence, "Go capture him!"

Sholto's taken aback by her ire, and wisely hurries away. Governor Morstan drapes his coat around Mary.

"Here, dear... you should wear this."

Mary shivers, finding after the excitement that she is suddenly cold. She glances out at the bay, where a thick fog moves across the top of the water. She takes the jacket, a welcome relief from the cold and the restrictive bonds of her velvet dress.

"Thank you, Father... and let that be the last of your fashion advice, please."

But she accepts his comforting embrace nonetheless.

* * *

In the town alley, the fog creeps through, casting an eerie twilight pall. An armed search party moves along the street. They glance down an alley, on the far side is another search party. The men nod to each other and continue on.

A moment, and then Altamont drops from his hiding place beneath the eaves of a building. He is still wears the manacles, realising that he needs to get rid of them. Across the street is a shop with barn doors, a pass-through door set in the middle. Above is a sign with a black anvil.

He slips in through the door into the blacksmith's forge, and takes a look around.

No windows. The forge is dark, lit by lanterns. Work-in-progress is scattered about: wagon, wheels, wrought iron gates, pipes - even a cannon with a crack in it. But every tool is in place; the workbench is tidy and neat. The entire room is filled with bladed weapons: swords, knives, boarding axes in various stages of completion.

He is startled by a noise: Harry Watson, in a blacksmith's apron, snores in the corner, cradling a bottle. He gives him a hard poke. Another. Harry snorts and he turns away.

Satisfied, he takes the bottle from his lap and sips from it only to find that it is almost empty.

"Why is the rum always gone?" he mutters to himself. Grumpily, he sheathes his sword, takes his hat off and takes a short-handled sledge from its place on the wall. He moves to the glowing coke furnace in the middle of the room. Slowly, he holds his right hand over the furnace, the chain down in the embers. The chain begins to glow. He sweats, grimaces at the pain -

Moving quickly, he wraps the chain around the nose of an anvil, brings the sledge down with a fast, hard stroke on the glowing links. One of them shatters under the blow. He drops the sledge, plunges his manacled hand in a bucket of water, and watches the steam billow.

He pulls his hand out, flexes it. There are blisters form beneath the manacle, but his hands are free.

There is a sound of the latch on the door and he dives for cover. John enters the forge, limping on his walking stick, and shuts the door behind him. Altamont's eyes go wide and his mouth opens unconsciously when he spots the handsome doctor with his pristine clothes and milk-white doctor's coat and all starched collar and creases. Almost immediately, he wants to throw him into the mud and dirty him in every way he could, just to assure himself that such individuals with so much purity don't exist in the world after all.

"I'm home," says he, "My practice was pretty useless today, thank you very much for asking."

He spots his drunken brother in the corner and shakes his head. Altamont watches him rattle on about what a vile drink rum is. He begs to differ, and almost immediately, he wants to drown him in rum and mud _and_ dirty him, sabotage him however he could. Take him apart.

John moves casually toward the sledge upon spotting Altamont's hat sitting near it. Then he grabs for it - but the flat of a sword blade slaps his hand. John jumps back, with a muffled cry of surprise.

"Not my hat, dearie."

Altamont stands there, sword levelled at John. He backs John up, toward the door. John glares at him.

You're the one they're hunting," says he, in a low and tight voice, and Altamont cannot help but notice the walking stick which he was leaning on heavily fall to the ground with a distinct clatter, "The pirate."

Altamont acknowledges it with a tip of his head... then frowns, regards John, scrutinizes him.

" _Captain_ Hector Altamont. But I prefer Sherlock, please."

"I prefer none," says John, and Sherlock can see his pink tongue dart out and lick his lower lip. He records that sight in his brain.

"Interesting..." he exclaims, and then catches himself, "You look familiar..."

"Do I now?" John pants during a short interval as he pins Sherlock with his narrowed eyes. Sherlock looks him up and down with a slightly disgusted expression and his gaze flits to John's waist and travels lower, "You're not  _that_ eunuch, are you? I certainly hope not."

Before John can understand the meaning of it, Sherlock continues merrily, "Have I ever threatened you before? Or do I owe you my fingers?"

"I've made a point of avoiding familiarity with pirates," his breathing is steady, almost precise to be regarded with a beat. Sherlock eyes him from top to bottom, and bites his lip. It would be certainly interesting to get to know this man and he makes it a point to see him again, but for now, he needs to run.

"Ah. Then it would be a shame to put a black mark on your record, wouldn't it? So if you'll excuse me..."

Beside the door is a grindstone, a sword resting in the honing guide. Before Sherlock can react, John has it in hand. He chuckles shortly.

"Do you think this is wise, my dear fellow? Crossing blades with a pirate?"

"You threatened Mar - Miss Morstan," he hastily corrects himself. Sherlock smiles, and John coughs in mortification.

"Only a little," says he with a faux-guilty smirk. In response, John assumes an en-garde position. Sherlock appraises him, unhappy to see John knows what he's doing. He attacks first. The two men stand in one place, trading feints, thrusts and parries with lightning speed, almost impossible to follow. John has no trouble matching Sherlock, not even with his limp, which lies neglected and forgotten in his knee.

"You know what you're doing," he says, "I'll give you that... Excellent form... But how's your footwork? If I step here..."

He takes a step around an imaginary circle. John steps the other way, maintaining his relationship to Sherlock.

Very good! And if I step again, you step again..." he continues to step around the circle as he speaks, "And so we circle, circle, like dogs we circle. . ."

He can see the beginnings of an amused smile in the corner of John's lips. No fear of danger. An unusual doctor, a doctor who can fight, someone who has served in, Sherlock sees his wrist, tan line stopping there, Indian provinces, or Sumatran, or Singapore, perhaps. Doctor gone to war, returns with a non-existent limp in the leg and is a good fighter in spite of a stiff shoulder. He confesses to himself that he is impressed, and oh, it will be certainly interesting to get to know this man. They are now exactly opposite their initial positions.

"Good day to you, my dear sir!"

Sherlock turns and heads for the door, now directly behind him. John registers angry surprise, and then with a vicious overhand motion, he throws his sword. The sword buries itself into the door, just above the latch, just missing him. He registers it, then pulls on the latch, but it won't move up, since the sword is in the way.

Sherlock rattles the latch. Tugs on the sword a few times; it is really stuck in there. He mouths a curse, but when he turns back to John, he's smiling.

"That's a good trick. Except, once again, you are between me and the way out," he points his sword at the back door triumphantly, "And now you have no weapon."

Eyes on Sherlock, John simply picks up a new sword from an anvil. Sherlock slumps in dismay - but then leaps forward. John and he duel. Their blades flash and ring, and for no reason, it feels extremely erotic to him. Suddenly, he swings the chain still manacled to his left hand at John's head. John ducks it, comes up wide-eyed.

Then Sherlock's chain smashes across John's sword, disarming him.

John quickly picks up another sword, and he groans at the free availability of swords. He tries to distract him.

"Interesting, that," he eyes his knees, and smashes a direct hit at John's sword, "Your limp was quite bad when you entered, and now you're on like the wind, eh? Served in India, I see. Pride of the British Army."

John glances down at his non-existent limp, a little startled. A direct hit, and he coils even more tightly with anger. He explodes, kicking a rack and causing a sword to fall into his hand; he uses his foot to bring his dropped sword into the air, catches it, and attacks Sherlock, both blades flashing.

Sherlock parries with sword and chain. His chain wraps around John's sword; John twists the handle of his guard through a link, and stabs the sword up into the ceiling. He groans in dismay. So Sherlock's manacled left arm is now suspended from the ceiling. Bit not good. He parries using one hand, twisting and dodging around the furnace. Sherlock compresses the bellows, blowing a shower of sparks into John's face. Sherlock grabs the chain and hoists himself up, kicking with his feet, knocking John back.

Sherlock uses his full weight, yanks the sword from the ceiling. Hurls a wooden mallet at John, then a second, hitting John on the wrist. John drops his sword, falls down, gets up to face Sherlock's pistol aimed directly between his eyes. John steps back, directly in front of the back exit. Glaring, he rubs his wrist gingerly.

John almost pouts, and Sherlock wants to cough at that. Doctor gone to war, and he pouts like a child. Well, he too is a child anyway.

"You cheated," says he, feeling betrayed.

Sherlock smiles, as if saying nonverbally 'what do you expect?', "Pirate."

Sherlock steps forward and John steps back, fully blocking the door. Sherlock rolls his eyes. Queen and country. How quaint! But nonetheless, he should've expected that.

"Move away."

John shakes his head, "No."

"I'm not in a mood to deal with half-wits like yourself. Move!"

"No. I cannot just step aside and let you escape."

Sherlock cocks the pistol. John stares back. The stand-off lasts for a long moment as there's banging on the main door.

"You're lucky, dearie," says he, "This shot's not meant for you." Sherlock uncocks the pistol. John is surprised and he reassesses Sherlock's words, wondering if he is misconstruing the meaning of them.

Suddenly, Harry Watson slams his bottle against Sherlock's skull. Sherlock crumples to the ground. The front and back doors smash open, and sailors fill the room. Sholto pushes forward, sees Sherlock on the ground. And then he surveys the sword lying beside John.

"Excellent work, Dr. Watson. You've aided in the capture of a dangerous fugitive."

Harry quips, "Just doing my civic duty, captain." John smiles humourlessly. Sholto turns to Harry in bewilderment.

"It's Commodore now actually," one of the sentries interrupt. Sherlock groans. Sholto stands over him, smiling smugly and with true loathing in his words.

"I believe you will always remember this as the day Captain Hector Altamont almost escaped... Take him away, gents."

Sholto's men haul Sherlock away. John watches them go. Harry looks at his bottle, broken. With a curse, he shrugs, "That ratter took my rum bottle. What else do you expect?"

* * *

At night, the thick fog blankets the entire bay now, and the town. The only structure visible is Fort Charles, high on the bluff, like a tall ship sailing a sea of grey. Above the Fort is a clear black sky sprinkled with stars. A waxing moon shines, giving both Fort and fog an eerie glow.

Just below the stone parapets of the fort, visible briefly deep in the fog, like a shark fin slicing through the water: the topmast of a ship, with doomed black sails billowing. Flying from the mast is a flag with white Aztec skull.

In the Governor's mansion, a maid removes a bed warmer from the fireplace, slides it between the sheets at the end of Mary's bed. The maid is chattering away about the wedding ceremony of Mary and Commodore Sholto, if Mary accepted it, and she is nodding vaguely, absently thinking about a certain handsome doctor.

"Nice and toasty. Thank you, Lucy."

The maid curtseys and exits. Mary opens a book, begins reading, toying absently with the medallion chain around her neck.

The lamp flame begins to diminish. Mary tries to turn it up. No good. The flame goes out, and the room is black.

* * *

A noose hangs from a gallows in the courtyard. Sholto and Governor Morstan walk along the far wall.

"Has my daughter given you an answer yet?"

Sholto shakes his head dejectedly, :No. She hasn't."

Governor Morstan sighs and tries to find an excuse, "Well, she had a taxing day..." then he decides that talking about the weather is better, "Ghastly weather tonight."

"Bleak," Sholto exhales, "Very bleak."

From the distance, there is a boom. Sholto looks around for the source of the sound.

"What was that?" says he, his ears perking up. The Governor has heard nothing.

And then comes the whistle of an incoming ball. "Cannon fire!" He screams, tackling Governor Morstan as the wall of the parapet explodes.

* * *

Sherlock sits up in his prison cell. He has heard something too, as there are more booms.

"I _know_ those guns!"

He peers out through the bars of the window. The other prisoners crowd around their window as well.

"It's the Black Pearl."


	4. We Just Need A Mum

"It's the Pearl," Sherlock whispers to himself, his eyes gleaming with the promise of adventure and mischief and moreover, vengeance. He peers out through the bars of the window. The other prisoners crowd around their window as well.

"The Black Pearl?" One of the prisoners whispers in frightened tones, "I've heard stories..." everyone else except Sherlock gathers around him like he is the village, or rather the prison storyteller, "She's been preying on ships and settlements for near ten years...  _and never leaves any survivors_..."

Sherlock rolls his eyes as the other prisoners suppress a shudder of fear running through their twisted, weak and boneless spines (Sherlock's words, not mine).

"There are a lot of stories about the Black Pearl that," Sherlock looks like he is considering his next words carefully and evaluating what it would mean to less fortunate folks unlike himself, "with all due respect to your mothers, half-witted sons of bitches like yourself might care to believe in, my dear sir—"

It's only by chance that Sherlock is in the adjacent cell as the prisoners, otherwise he would've been sentenced to an unanimous death sentence by the rest of his prisoner mateys. He slumps against the wall with dismay at not being able to have fun when his "fellow" pirates clearly are here to. Then, he remembers the medallion. They must be here for her. But how could a woman have a medallion? Only a boy could, unless one of them escaped?

"Well excuse us,  _dear sir_ , if we ain't grumpy enough to extend the same formality ter you, not having bein' resigned to the gallows yet," a boom of laughter follows it, too silly for Sherlock to pay attention to.

Yet, he manages to throw the verbal volleyball into their court, "Isn't."

"What?"

"It's not ain't, it's isn't," says he through gritted teeth, "And you should say 'pardon' instead of 'what'. Did they not teach you this in school?"

He slips back into his thoughts.... the boy who escaped.

Impossible. It was nigh impossible for any human to escape from the clutches of the miscreants that Trevor and Pan led together. No, impossible for anyone except Sherlock Holmes..... no scratch that, impossible for anyone except Hector Altamont.

Sherlock leans back with a satisfied smirk. Hector Altamont, such a lovely name, such a pirate—y name. Trevor, ugh! He is clearly too unpirate—y.

Then he remembers that Victor Trevor goes around by the name of Hook, which clearly sounds better than Altamont. He huffs into shadows, irritated beyond belief.

But he doesn't have a hat. A proper one. Sherlock....no, Altamont has a hat, a proper Captain hat.

"Altamont has a hat, Altamont has a hat... Hook doesn't have a hattie," he chants to himself, only to remember that he is still locked up. Sighing to himself at the extreme inconvenience of his situation, he turns his attention to the earlier prisoner who has now become the official storyteller for the rest of the abominable gang of wrongdoers.

"The Black Pearl still cannot be seen," says he with wide eyes, looking as if possessed by a demon spirit, "—but the fog lights up around her with each boom of her guns. Boom!"

The rest of the prisoners recoil as the "Boom" of the storyteller coincides exactly with the boom of the cannons outside. Sherlock grimaces in disgust as a cockroach climbs up the shoulder of the prisoner, now resting merrily atop his head.

"She's firing on both sides now, hammering both the fort and the town. BOOM!.... Streets, buildings, docks and ships shatter and explode beneath the onslaught—villagers panic—run for cover—dodge flying debris as best they can. If this is not hell on earth, then it's about to be..... BOOM!"

"Oh, give the poor man a break," Sherlock growls, feeling bored as hell and trying his best to maintain his personal hygiene as best as he can. He raises an arm and sniffs his underarms. He stinks. And he makes plans to get a shower as soon as he is out of there, which is less likely, given the circumstances. He doesn't have a single thing to pick the lock with.

"Long boats emerge out of the fog, carrying armed pirates. They  _swarm_  from the boats, striking down villagers indiscriminately and setting fires...."

* * *

 John, shirtless and sweaty, is preparing for a bath when he takes a look at the shot wound in his left shoulder. Grimacing at the effort to rotate his arm normally, he takes out a needle and prepares it for administering morphine to himself for the pain, and then he stops. His attention is drawn to the window. He opens the shutter and peers out—nothing but fog. Almost without noticing, he sinks the needle into his skin, feeling the pain in his leg intensify. He thinks about the pirate he had faced that afternoon, and his remarks about his bad leg.

There's a boom in the distance, followed by the screams of men and women mingled together. Almost instantaneously, the house ten yards from his blows apart. He ducks to save himself from the explosion.

"Harry," is the first thought that comes to his mind.

John slips a boarding axe into his belt at the small of his back. He puts a dirk in his belt, then a second and a third. He picks up a second axe and a sword.

He slides back the doors of the forge, the limp in his leg forgotten—

A woman runs past him, chased by a young one-armed pirate man wearing a yellow bandeau. John backhands the axe square into his chest, a deadly blow, and then heads out, up the street towards the pub where he knows his brother is probably lying, drunk and wasted.

* * *

The moon is obscured by smoke rising from the burning gallows and wooden roofs. Cannon fire continues to rain down, but the fort's own cannons are now returning fire.

"Governor!" says Sholto severely, "Barricade yourself in my office!"

"James..." Governor Morstan hesitates and covers his face with his arms upon the explosion hear the parapets, at which Sholto only barks, "That's an order, Governor!"

Morstan turns to go—but finds himself face-to-face with a pirate, a handsome blond young man with gold earrings. Beyond him, more pirates, all of them young men, come up over the far wall. The pirate grins at Governor Morstan and raises a cutlass, and right on time, Sholto's sword blocks the pirate's slash.

"They've flanked us!" He barks, "Men! Swords and pistols!"

* * *

Mary looks out a window at the scene below: even through the fog, multiple fires are visible, and ships burn in the harbour. Shouts and cries of pain. Cannon fire echoes. She watches, horrified as the whole of Port Royal is set on fire with miscreants and pirates everywhere the eyes can travel. It is an odd sight. Pirates were always supposed to be unclean and merciless and frankly, disabled sort of  _old_ men, but all of the wrongdoers look.... young, almost her age.

In the dense fog, there's only one concentrated place from where she can see the source of the cannon fire: a ship with no colours, and recognisable black sails with the sign of the Jolly Roger.

But she could say, she hadn't expected even Hector Altamont to be so.... strange and unclean... and weird—ish. Maybe James was right, he really was the worst pirate she had ever seen, in spite of all the stories she had read about him about: escapades, adventures. It strikes her that she has never read anything... nasty about him, like pilfering towns or cities, or murdering people.... yet.

And she definitely hadn't expected Hector Altamont to be so young, almost her age. And repulsive. And despicable. And with all his body parts intact, with the exception of his kidneys.... Well, he did say that he owed them to somebody.

She notices movement directly below her window: shadowy figures with flaming torches in their grip approaching the house—pirates. Mary gathers her skirt and bolts from the balcony of her room to stop the butler from opening the front door. Making her way from the second floor hallway, she reaches the railing overlooking the foyer, and cries out, just as the butler opens the door in no haste, but too late; there is the boom of a gun, and the butler crumples.

Mary ducks down in horror, peering through the balusters. The pirates scan the foyer, searching. The leader is Pintel, a young blond pirate with the most unclean clothes Mary has ever seen.

Suddenly Pintel looks up, and locks eyes with Mary. How could he know she was there?

"Up there!" Signals Ragetti, Pintel's pirate companion and his look-alike, except with a wooden eye that he fixes religiously. His good eye settles on Mary, whereas the other one wobbles in the socket. It's the only way one can tell them apart. Mary wonders if they're twins.

The pirates rush for the stairs. Mary scrambles back into the nearest room, aiming for self preservation. Once inside the sitting room, Mary shuts the door, locks it, listens as the pirates pound up the stairs. A tentative hand on her shoulder frightens her out of her wits.

"Miss Mary?" She jumps. Her maid is right behind her, terrified, "Are they come to kidnap you, miss? The daughter of the governor would be very valuable."

Mary realizes she's right. There is the sickeningly horrifying slam of a body against the door. She gulps and turns to her maid.

"Listen, they haven't seen you. Hide... and first chance, run for the fort, alright? Make sure that you're safe—and that father's safe."

The maid nods. Another slam at the door—it gives away a bit. Mary shoves the maid urgently into the corner, between a tall wardrobe and the wall and dashes for the side door, controlling their gasps. When the door smashes inward, it slams into the wardrobe, and the maid cannot be seen. The pirates run in, spotting the open side door leading to the bedroom and make a run for it.  Pintel is the first through, and gets the pan of the bed warmer in the face for his trouble—he staggers back, holding his nose.

"Ow, bloody hell!"

In the sitting room, Mary's maid breaks cover and runs for the hall, unnoticed. Mary swings the bed warmer at Ragetti, but he catches it by the handle and Mary can't jerk it free, so she wrenches it over and the pan lid swings down, burning Ragetti as hot coals spill on his head, sizzling. She gasps in horror, "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"

"Ow, I'm burnin'," he squeals, "Bitch, I'm burnin'!"

Mary bangs the bed warmer on his head and waits for the man to fall to the ground like a loony tunes show and then dashes for the hallway stairs.

The pirates burst from the bedroom—Pintel goes for the stairs, but Ragetti vaults the handrail, not noticing Mary's maid, who looks almost close to fainting upon registering the butler's dead body with a bullet buried in his forehead, but continues out the still-open front door at a dead run. Mary tries to follow her but Ragetti lands between her and the front door. His face is burned, his hair smolders and he's back from consciousness in such a short span of time that only God knows how he managed it—he reaches out for her, trying to scare her. Mary pulls up short, rushes to run the other way, only to find Pintel, on the stairs, who grabs her by the hair.

"Careful!" Ragetti calls out gleefully, "Don' wanna hurt my mum!"

Mary doesn't slow and doesn't bother to catch the meaning in his words, she spins, grabs Pintel's arm with both hands and pulls him hard, belly-first, into the cap of the newel post, and he lets go of her hair upon registering the pain. Mary keeps going. Upon entering the dining room, Mary slams the double doors shut and throws the bolts. The interior shutters are closed over the windows. Above the fireplace are two crossed swords.

Mary climbs on the firebox; she grabs one of the swords by the hilt and pulls—but it won't come free. Both swords are securely attached to the wall.

"Damn!" She curses, forsaking her language. A smash from the doors alerts her. The pirates really are relentless as they try to break down the door.

"Mum, open the door!" Pintel calls out gleefully.

On the table is a platter with fruit, cheese and bread. Mary grabs the knife from the platter. Like any bread knife, it has a round point. Mary jabs it into her palm to test its effectiveness—it's useless as a weapon. The entire house is useless.

"Double damn!" She curses. She hears the young pirates laugh gleefully and of course, identically. The blade of a boarding axe breaches the door—the pirates will be through soon—Mary looks around controlling the urgency of her breath...

The doors give way; the pirates charge through and the dining room's empty but Mary nowhere to be seen. Pintel and Ragetti search, under the table, behind draperies and Ragetti ends up getting stuck under the heavy wooden furniture. Pintel pulls him out with great effort and ends up smacking his head on the fireplace mantelpiece as they both break free. Ragetti stumbles over the  A window is open, and it looks like Mary has jumped out of the window for an attempt at escape, but Pintel knows better.

"We know you're here, mommy. Come out and we promise we won't hurt you."

"We just need a mum," Ragetti calls out and Pintel smacks him on the head, making the wooden eyeball pop out of his eye socket. It is disgusting to look at.

"Ow, me eye!"

"We will find you, mum. Like every son does his mother. You know what it is and it calls to us!"

Mary hides in the dumbwaiter box, wrapped around the double pulley ropes that go through the centre. She wonders for the first time what they mean by 'mum'.

"The gold calls to us!" Says he, brandishing the medallion hung around his neck, the same medallion as Mary has. She watches through the gap and registers that. Pulling out the medallion, she rubs the gold with her thumb. This is their objective. Light spills into the box through gaps in the top as the door above is slid open—Mary looks up through the gaps, only to see Pintel leering down at her.

"Hello, mother."

Mary urgently works the ropes to lower the box. Pintel pulls the other way; he's stronger, and the box rises. Mary tries to stop it—wrapping her left forearm through the rope and lets it jam against the top of the box. She gasps at the pain, but the box stops. She sees the bread knife near her and saws at the rope with the bread knife clumsily. Ragetti pull the rope, crushing Mary's forearm. Tears of pain on her face, she keeps sawing—

The rope parts, and the dumbwaiter box plummets, much to the Twins' dismayed groans. In the kitchen, from behind the door of the dumbwaiter, comes a crash and a cloud of dust. The door slides open, and Mary clambers out. Her head is cut, she is streaked with dirt, and she can barely stand. She leans over the table, trying to recover herself and look for an escape route. The sound of running footsteps gets louder...

"Please, no..." she prays to whatever deity can save her from her horrendous and frankly inevitable fate. She had expected pirates to be exciting and like a daydream, not a nightmare like this. Mary touches the chain of the medallion... and a desperate idea occurs to her.

The pirates burst through the door. Mary backs away, holds the bread knife out to ward them off. They come around either side of the table, stalking her—

"Par—Parlay!" She gasps, looking fearfully at them. Pintel can't believe his ears.

"What?!"

"Parlay! I invoke the right of parlay! According to the Code of the Brethren, set down by the pirates Morgan and Bartholomew, you must take me to your Captain!"

Pintel rolls his eyes, not waiting to wonder how she knows about the Code of the Brethren, "I know the bloody code—!"

"If an adversary demands parley," she continues shakily, "you can do them no harm until the parlay is complete."

Pintel grins. She has it the wrong way and she's practically offering herself up for what they've come to take. They aren't here to hurt her anyway. "It would appear, so do you."

"To blazes with the code!" Snarls Ragetti. He steps forward, dirk drawn—but Pintel stops him.

"She wants to be taken to the Captain," says Pintel, slapping him lightly on his head again, and thankfully, the eye doesn't pop out, "and she'll go without a fuss, won't you,  _mum_?" He looks to Mary: 'right?' Mary nods, feeling relieved. She has accomplished step one. Now remains the near impossible task of getting off the Black Pearl.

"We must honour the code."

Ragetti concedes the point, sheaths his dirk, "Aye. Mum."

He takes Mary rather lovingly by the arm, treating her as very brittle and precious as she tries not to shake them away. It was better to be seen with a pirate and go away alive than to be seen alone and be hacked to pieces. Anyway, they would have to pass by Fort Charles. She would call for her Father to save her or maybe even James.

* * *

John races along, momentarily free of the pirates. He spots the Governor's Mansion in the distance. There are figures moving away from it—Mary, forced by the two Twin pirates.

John hurries forward to save her. Suddenly a pirate jumps out from the shadows, slashes; John defends himself. The pirate has one arm and wears a yellow bandana. John hesitates—didn't he already kill this guy?

The hesitation is just enough for another pirate, swinging a flaming torch, to slam John in the head from behind. He crumples to the ground. The pirate lights a second torch, hands it to One-armed pirate. They hoot with delight and head off, setting fires as they go. On the ground, John sees stars, literally in the sky and figuratively in his mind's eye before slipping into unconsciousness as a result of the blow.

* * *

In the cell block of Fort Charles, the wall of the cells explodes inward. Sherlock pulls himself out from under rubble. Moonlight spills in through the gaping hole created by the cannon ball. Beyond it: freedom, yes!

But it is centered on the other cell. The part of Sherlock's cell that is gone is too small for a man to slip through.

"Praise be!" The other prisoners cry happily. Storyteller and the other two scramble through.

"My sympathies, my dear sir," says he, mocking Sherlock's manner of speech and failing horribly at that, "you've no manner of luck at all!"

The three descend the rocks beyond, disappearing from view. Sherlock is alone. Cannon fire continues, occasional hits shaking the fort. The dog holding the key to the cells cowers under a long bench, key ring still in his mouth. Sherlock sighs—resigned and feeling defeated at having to stoop so low, he picks up the bone from the other cell, and tries coax the dog forward.

"It's all right, doggie... come here, boy. It's just you and your good old Hector, always at your service, for you and your juicy bone. Come here, Spot. Rover. Fido? Redbeard?"

To his surprise, the dog crawls out from under the bench at the last name. Sherlock continues to coax him closer.

"Should've told me  _that_  was going to work," Sherlock mutters to himself, "Come here, you slimy, filthy stupid mongrel character...."

The key ring is nearly within Sherlock's reach—suddenly, the dog's attention goes to the door into the cell block. He bristles and growls, backing away from the door, whining.

"Oh, no, NO!" Sherlock cries out in dismay as the dog trots away, wagging its tail high up in the air, "I didn't  _mean_  it!"

The dog bolts, through the bars, into the cell, then out through the breached wall—taking the keys with him. Sherlock slumps against the cell. He looks down at the bone. An idea occurs to him. Desperate times call for desperate measures, he sighs.

The door to the cell block bursts open. A pair of young pirates step in: Slightly and Nibs.

"This ain't the armoury! You stupid idiot!"

They turn to go, but Slightly has spotted Sherlock, who mutters a correctional "isn't" to anyone who cares to listen. His eyes gleams with surprise and menace.

Well, well... Look what we have here, Nibs. It's Hector Altamont."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, " _Captain_. Captain Hector Altamont."

They share a hearty laugh, as Sherlock barks his own brittle one, "Huh. Last time I saw you, you were all alone on a God-forsaken spit of an island, shrinking into the distance. I'd heard you'd gotten off, but I didn't believe it."

"Did you sprout little wings and flyaway like Tink?"

Nibs whispers to his mate,"His fortunes aren't improved much."

The two laugh. Sherlock doesn't. He steps forward, close to the bars. This puts him in a spill of moonlight. He is tight with annoyance upon driving the dog away. And with fury upon having taken his beloved ship, the love of his life, away from him.

"Worry about your own fortunes. The lowest circle of hell is reserved for rapists and pilferers such as yourselves."

Slightly and Nibs don't like hearing that, and their laughter dies down. Sherlock looks pleased at the effect it has on them. Slightly lashes out and grabs Sherlock by the throat through the bars. Sherlock clutches the pirate's wrist and looks down.

Nothing's wrong with him. He looks back up at Slightly, whose face has become wrinkled and degenerated as the face of a hundred-year-old man.

"It's true," Sherlock observes with a slight smirk, "Your powers  _are_  fading.... you're growing old... Interesting."

Slightly sneers, shoving Sherlock backwards and leaving him choking, hard. Now out of the moonlight, his face looks young and normal. Sherlock stares, realizing—

"You need all the Lost Boys back, don't you?"

Sherlock, reaches out for something under his shirt, and pulls out a medallion, the same as that of Mary's. Slightly looks at him and then at the medallion.

"You're not supposed to have it. You're not one of us."

Sherlock sneers, which is almost immediately followed by a yawn, "Go to hell, Nibs. And you, Slightly. Tell Victor and Pan to  _hurry up_..."

The rest of his words are lost under the choke that bubbles up him as Nibs grabs his neck, "I'll snap you in two."

And they're gone, leaving Sherlock spluttering and choking as he massages his throat gingerly. He looks down at his chest. The medallion is missing from around his neck.

* * *

Amid the thunder of cannon fire, a longboat slips through the fog. Mary sits in the prow, her eyes darting everywhere, the cannon fire at a distance. Columns of water from cannon balls geyser up around the boat.

The fog parts. Mary looks up to see....

The Black Pearl, a tall galleon in all its glory, its black sails looming high above her. At the bow is an ornately carved figurehead of a beautiful woman, arm held high, a small bird taking wing from her outstretched hand. The longboat makes for a pair of lines dangling from a winch. She still cannot believe that the one fantasy she has dreamt of since her childhood has turned into a reality.

Lit by lanterns; no moon is visible beneath the fog. Smoke hangs heavy above the deck. Mary's longboat is raised above the deck rail—pirates spot her, and stare. They've been with women but have never seen a real lady before. One polite fellow steps forward to offer his hand. She takes it and steps down, looking up at a tall, imposing silhouette standing upon the poop deck with what looks like a dressed monkey perched on his shoulder. She huddles, self-conscious in only her nightgown and dressing robe.

"I didn't know we was taking a woman aboard," says the bosun, a large brunette, with an ugly slash of a blade marring his youthful face.

"She's invoked the right of parlay... with Captain Hook."

On the poop deck, the imposing figure in silhouette stands by the wheel, too far away to have heard Pintel's words. But his head turns at the mention of his name. The silhouetted figure moves toward the stairs. A cloud of smoke obscures him—and then, as if he skipped the stairs, he strides out of the smoke on the main deck dramatically.

Presenting the tall, dashing and handsome (and definitely fearsome) Captain Hook, aka Victor Trevor, with his left, sometimes right hand missing and a hook in its place to cover up for it. He looks like the oldest of them, with icy blue eyes peering at her with curiosity. Despite the bright colors of clothing, he's definitely not a man anyone would want to meet in a dark alley.

Or anywhere, for that matter.

Mary, more terrified than ever, cannot look away from his eyes. But she musters her courage anyway. "I am here to—"

The bosun slaps her. "You'll speak when spoken to!" Mary gasps at the pain breaking out in her cheekbones, having never been slapped before. Ow! How dare you!

His wrist is grabbed—painfully—by Victor, for his efforts at showing off dominance. "And you'll not lay a hand on those under the protection of parlay!"

"Aye, sir," says he sullenly, scanning the skies for something to arrive. Victor releases him. Turning to Mary, he smiles—it shows both silver and gold teeth. Scratch silver, it must be platinum.

"My apologies, miss. As you were saying, before you were so rudely interrupted?"

"Captain Hook..." says she, mustering more courage and confidence, "I have come to negotiate the cessation of hostilities against Port Royal."

Victor is both impressed and amused. "There was a lot of long words in there, miss, and we're not but humble pirates... What is it you want?"

She stares at the monkey on Victor's shoulders. It is staring eerily at her. Victor takes note of it, and pushes it away. Mary gulps as the animal lands with a soft  _thud._

"Leave. And never come back." She says, but Victor and the pirates laugh. She looks around in dismay. She has no supporters aboard the pirate ship.

"I am disinclined to acquiesce to your request," and then, when he sees the lack of reaction from Mary, he supplies helpfully, "Means 'No'."

She grits her teeth, and reaches out for her medallion hidden under the bodice of her dressing gown. "Very well." She quickly slips the medallion off, darts to the side rail, dangles it over the side of the ship. The pirates go quiet. Some of them even go after her to stop her, but Victor shows up a warning hand to stop them in a gesture of 'I'll handle this' behind Mary's back.

She turns to them, "I'll drop it!"

"My holds are bursting with swag," he barks out a laugh, "That bit of shine matters to me... Why?"

Now it all makes sense to her. They must be needing the medallion for some sort of ritual, "Because it's what you're searching for. You've been searching for it for years. I recognize this ship. I saw it eight years ago, when we made the crossing from England."

Victor looks interested and even more amused, "Did you, now?"

Mary glares at him. She's getting nowhere. Her heart thunders in her chest, and then goes silent abruptly.

"Fine. I suppose if this is worthless, there's no reason to keep it, gentlemen."

She flips the medallion up, off her finger—No reaction from the crew. Maybe she's got it the wrong way after all. She catches it by the chain, and then catching hold of one of the mooring lines, she clambers up the deck rail clumsily. This time, the crew lets out a gasp. They're not really after the medallion. They're after her, she realises, for some reason only they knew.

"I'll throw myself overboard!"

No sooner she finishes her words that she finds herself being thrown forward by something—someone—behind her. She can't see what it is, but the crew cheers, and Victor takes his ridiculously big and feathered hat off, rolling his eyes at the theatrics. She gasps in horror as she feels a grip on her arm, only to see nothing but a pair of disembodied hands... not hands, the shadow of hands, only that its much, much real than a real shadow. She is safely transported back to the deck, where she smiles helplessly at the pirates, covering herself with her dressing gown.

"You have a name, missy?" comes an adolescent voice from behind her. She turns to see the youngest of them, a beautiful boy with a beautiful smile, but the pirates all look at him like he's their leader, Victor completely forgotten.

This is Pan, the leader of the Lost Boys, but you already knew that.

"Mary—" she stops herself from saying "Morstan"; then she steps forward, "Watson." Spinning and eventually, embroidering the lie further, "I'm a maid in the governor's household," she curtsies.

Victor and Pan react to the name Watson: it confirms what he has suspected. The other pirates surreptitiously exchange glances and nod. Mary hears the jubilant whispers of 'Watson'. Pan looks her from up to down. She doesn't look like a maid in any way.

"I'm Peter," Pan extends his hand, talking like a grown up for such a young boy. Mary curtsies like her maid used to, "You've got sand, for a maid."

She curtsies again. "Thank you... sir."

"And how does a maid come to own a trinket such as valuable as that?" He examines her, "A family heirloom, perhaps?"

Mary walks into it, not realising that she's saying all the wrong things, "Of course. I didn't steal it, if that's what you mean." Says she, pretending to be offended.

"No, no, nothing like that," Pan comes to a decision, "Very well. You hand that over, Captain Hook will put your town to our rudder and ne'er return.

Mary examines the little boy suspiciously. He's a little strange, too young to live with pirates and acting like a grown up all the time, "Can I trust you—?"

"It's you who invoked the parlay!" Says Victor outrageously, "Believe me, Miss, you'd best hand it over, now... or these be the last friendly words you'll hear!"

Mary hesitates, but she has no choice. She holds out the medallion. He grabs it, clutches it in his fist like hope.

"Our bargain...?"

Pan and Victor grin devilishly—but then Pan nods to Victor, and Victor to the huge brunette, "We're leaving, Mr. Smee."

Smee, the bosun, bellows, "Still the guns, and stow 'em! Signal the men, set the flags, and make good to clear port!"

For the first time since the attack began, the booming of the guns ceases. Mary is surprised—and relieved. The pirates hustle to follow orders. Victor turns away. Pan is gone. Again, and so is his shadow.

"Wait!" Mary rushes after Victor, "You must return me to shore! According to the rules of the Order of the Brethren—"

Victor wheels on her, "First. Your return to shore was not part of our negotiations nor our agreement, and so I _must_ do nothing. Secondly: you must be a pirate for the Pirate's code to apply. And you're not. And thirdly... the code is more what you'd call... guidelines than actual rules."

He grins gold and  ~~silver~~  platinum at her, "Welcome aboard the Black Pearl, Mrs. Watson."

Mary stares in speechless terror, and reels backwards, where she is grabbed by the Twins, Pintel and Ragetti, who twirl her around, screaming to her, "Let's hear a story, mum!"

"Come on, tell us a bedtime story mum!"

As the Black Pearl turns out to sea, Mary is led back along the deck to the captain's cabin. The fog starts to dissipate, turning to a light mist; through it, the Black Pearl makes for the scarlet glow of dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're going to ask me whether I was watching 'Once Upon A Time' this weekend, well.... you already know the answer :D
> 
> Review?


	5. And You Insist That You Aren't A Pirate

When John stirs and begins to regain his consciousness, there are chickens brooding over him calling him to the conscious world with their feeble quacks, little colourful creatures painted in the colours of Port Royal like it used to be before the pirates turned it into a mass of wreckage and tears with their merciless massacre.

He opens one eye against the glare of the late-morning sun and props up on one elbow. He gives a real start upon hearing a sickening crack.

The hens start quacking louder, some approaching to attack John with their blunt, hard beaks when they discover he has broken one of their newly-laid eggs. He groans as his stiff joints crack one by one and massages his head upon feeling sharp pain burst in his scalp—the little clot formed over the place when the pirate had struck him.

Pirates, he starts, they had taken Mary away. Kidnapped her. He gets up to his feet in an instant and first rushed towards his little house to check whether his brother is alright.

"Harry? HARRY?!" He yells, his throat raw. There are still kindling, straws aflame in the street, people are groaning over their losses, working to retrieve them and save whatever there is left of their houses or poultry. Men are pushing carts with bodies—dead piled up with the gravely injured—towards the town hospital. Women are sobbing relentlessly, and the unmarried ones gathering food, washing their houses, helping as much as they can.

John bursts into his house. Harry is nowhere to be seen. Panic clots in him. He's got patients to attend to, people he must sew up and treat after this butchering, but he has to find his brother as well.

And Mary. He owes his life, his reunion with his brother, to her.

He shakes his head; his duty first, or the people he loves? He eyes his doctor's coat, and his brother's forge, the swords, the rum. The little handkerchief which he has saved for the past three months, which still has Mary's scent on it. She had always wondered where she had lost it. His brother was too drunk to notice its presence.

John gives himself a mental shake. Not helping.

Harry first, he decides. There is another doctor at the hospital, and after all, it would take him only two minutes to reach the tavern. Because Harry is at the tavern. Yes he is. Of course he is. This is his usual practice. Stay drunk till noon.

Nevertheless, John grabs a boarding axe and a sword, in case any pirates still remained.

He goes out, looking far away towards the street opening towards the harbour. He takes in the devastation of Port Royal: the harbour is dotted with burning and sunken ships; buildings are razed and still smoulder. The clouds obscured by thick, billowing black smoke, the beautiful morning doing nothing to bring in a slight cheer. Company sergeants are patrolling the streets on white and chestnut horses.

The aftermath of hell on earth.

The grim and morbid feeling which John had always learnt to associate with death draws upon him. John gulps.

The tavern is right in front of their house, only a shed away. The building is broken down crumbling to its last bricks. Men bemoan the loss of their mates, about the rum gone. Of course, John shakes his head. In the event of a bombing, how would a tavern of all buildings survive? It would be the first to burn down.

John stares with horror at the pile of half-burnt, mangled bodies piled up near the inn. Most of the men are roughly of Harry Watson's height and rotund figure. Without a care, he looks from one dead man to the next, examining their necks for his dog tags. The third man he examines has them around his neck.

His jaw slackens. It can't be, no. He had searched for his brother yesterday, he wasn't in the tavern. He wasn't. It can't be.

With trembling but resolute fingers, he works open the jaw, checks for the pattern and the anatomy of his teeth, the cut around his jaw, the calloused fingers, his burnt pinkie, the stitch around his lower abdomen. Harry's face is dreamy. Surreal.

He gathers himself, standing up and letting Harry's limp body lie among his mates. A single tear gathers the soot on his face and falls down on the dirty ground like black ink. There's no point in shedding tears, he tells himself. Pity the living, not the dead.

"Dr. Watson! Dr. Watson!" comes a shrill cry at his left elbow, begging to be delivered from the pain, "help us, save us."

John staggers backwards at the beseeching young girl and makes his way away. Feet have never made him go faster, of course with his limp. Strange place, the world. Over one night, he had been healed of his malady while the rest of the people were cursed with it.

The living. Mary. The Governor.

John turns, and runs for the Governor's Mansion as the rest of the world passes him in inconsequential blurs. Races past the smashed doors, into the foyer. Calls out:

Miss Morstan! Mary!"

A terrible silence answers him. He spots an overturned chair, fallen bookshelf—he had been here the previous morning, preening himself up to present himself to the Governor. Everything so normal, so serene. The grand velvet dress on Mary.

Horrified at the sudden turn of events, he turns and runs away. There's starting to be so many things to run from, but this time not away, but towards.

Towards the Commodore's office in Fort Charles. They probably didn't know what had happened to Mary. They needed to know. Send the Royal Navy after her. She was precious. They needed her back. He needed her back, safe and smiling.

He sprints in through the doors, his eyes tracking the stone parapets damaged in the firing. Company soldiers and sailors were everywhere, tending to injured. John has to control himself, control the urge to take the opposite road and set down to treat them. For once, the Hippocratic Oath had to rest. For Mary. Anything for Mary.

Several wounded sailors, still in their uniform—red jackets and white knee breeches spilling crimson blood—are being pulled away in carts. John has seen similar visions before—in Kandahar and Agra and Meerut—flocks of Indians rebels killed by Company soldiers at gunfire, and of his own mates in the Army.

But here, where he lives, it's still reminiscent of his worst nightmares. Governor Morstan, Sholto, and Small among other soldiers are gathered around a map. The map is so ridiculously large it drapes over the Governor's desk, the far end supported by a chair. Governor Morstan is looking someplace else, not able to resist the sunshine.

"They've taken her! They've taken Mary!" John bursts into the office abruptly into their nautical planning session. Without lifting his head from the map, Sholto announces as he plots points on a chart with a drawing compass.

"Mr. Murtogg, remove this man at once."

One of the sailors who had accosted the Sherlock pirate, John remembers, comes to drag him away, but John shakes him off. The sailor looks comically miffed at his negative response.

"We have to hunt them down—and save her!" says he, brandishing his boarding axe viciously, ready for action.

"We're aware of the situation," Sholto replies drily. When John sees that he's getting nowhere he turns to the Governor, hoping some sympathy from him

"The pirates—they took Miss Morstan—" he begins, but the Governor's worry has made him short tempered. He turns towards John, looking terrible and gaunt in his anxiety, his wig improperly secured and his cuffs and frills undone.

"And where do you propose we start? If you have any information that concerns my daughter, then share it!" His voice trembles at the last note, "If anyone does, tell me!"

When John is silent at his unbecoming passionate outburst, as passionate as he can be, he subdues himself to looking back at the now-clear skies, "Leave, Dr. Watson. You have patients to attend to. The Commodore will do what he can, you do what you have to do."

As everyone tries their best not to loom apprehensive, the sailor called Murtogg remembers something. He ventures it warily.

"That Hector Altamont. . ." he utters, and the attention of the entire gathering is at him, "He—he talked about the Black Pearl—" but his companion overrides him.

"Mentioned it, is more what he did," he says with a pointed glare. Murtogg cowers helplessly.

"Still. . ."

John feels like he has struck a goldmine, but when he sees the sailors quite nonchalant about that particular bit, he insists, "We can ask him where it is—maybe he can lead us to it!"

Governor Morstan scoffs, "Don't be ridiculous, Dr. Watson. That pirate tried to kill my daughter. We could never trust a word he said!"

John looks down. Morstan is right, albeit in a wrong way. Altamont had only threatened her, not tried to kill. He looks up imploringly, "We could strike a bargain—!" Since that's what pirates understood. Their language.

But before John can finish his sentence, the Commodore overrides him unaffectedly with a stern rejection, "No. The pirates who invaded this fort left Altamont locked in his cell. Ergo, they are not his allies, and therefore of no value."

John grits his teeth angrily. Did they forget that he was a soldier in the artillery, sent back home only because he was shot and had contracted a peculiar Eastern illness? He was no less than the incompetent, obese sailors like Murtogg and Mullroy. Yes, he wasn't as good a shot with his stiff left arm, but even with that, he was still better.

Through with John, Sholto turns to the Governor, and John feels a sharp spike of jealousy lick up his spine at that, the way the Governor trusts James Sholto with Mary's rescue instead of him, even though he had always been Mary's unofficial bodyguard, back when they were children. James Sholto was nowhere near back then, busy civilising Port Royal.

"We will determine their most likely course, and launch a search mission that sails with the tide—"

John slams the boarding axe into the desk, through the map, as if anger could travel all the way from his veins and through the axe and into the earth.

"That's not good enough. This is Mary's life!"  
The jump in Sholto's jaw is immediate as he sees the insubordinate boarding axe fixed into the map. Always the one to loathe indiscipline, he plucks it free from the table and smiled falsely, tight-lipped at him.

"John Watson, you were a soldier invalided home, you're now only a medical man. Neither are you fit, nor do you have the skills of a sailor."

John glances furtively at Mullroy and Murtogg, pride of the British Navy. Quick to react, Sholto grabs John by the arm and drags him roughly to the door.

"This is not the time for rash actions. Do not make the mistake of thinking you are the only man here who loves Mary," he looks challengingly into John's eyes and John stares back defiantly. He might be invalided, God help him, but no one could challenge his competence and his fitness, much less the Commodore.

Sholto opens the door, and then turns away. John watches him walk back to the desk. John's face sets in resolve, and he leaves, face set stony with the revenge and frustration playing havoc inside him.

* * *

In the jail cells of Fort Charles, Sherlock strains, trying to budge one of the bars. Even with the damage from the cannon ball, it won't move. Even with his half-starved form, he can't slip out of there. He resumes trying to pick the lock on the mossy jail bars with the dog bone he has carved roughly into the shape of a slender key. But being too big, it's stuck in there. He stares around desperately. The paraphernalia on his clothes: artefacts, little jewels and beads, have nothing sleek and sharp in them.  
He hears the sound of the door latch, and quickly lets go of it—

The door opens, and John slips in. Looks around. Sherlock lounges on the floor of his cell, apparently relaxed and unconcerned. John marches straight up to the bars. Sherlock smirks. The man looks just the way he had wanted him to yesterday. Dirty, rough, middle-class clothes, his knuckles smeared with blood, panting a little from exertion. Unshaven. Coppery-blond hair cloying to the damp flesh on his forehead. Sherlock casts a look down his toned, slim body, down the golden hairs on his chest peeking through the shirt, the creamy soft, warm tone of it. Such perfection. This man better not be an eunuch. He'd hate the Gods if this man turned out to be a eunuch. Or impotent.

"You! Altamont!" He barks. Sherlock yawns.

"Aye?"

"Are you familiar with that ship? The Black Pearl?"

Sherlock lies back down. "Somewhat." He answers dubiously.

"Where does it make berth?"

Sherlock scoffs. Innocent little fella. Good doctor. Never had anyone to tell him how good it felt, being bad. One sight of him, one breath shared and it was enough to drive a man crazy, "Where does it make berth? Haven't you heard the stories? The Black Pearl does not make berth. Why would it?"

John frowns, "Why wouldn't it? The ship's real enough. So its anchorage must be a real place. Where is it?"

Sherlock lets out a small sigh as he checks out his nails, "Why ask me?"

John lets out an answering, defeated sigh, not meeting Sherlock's eyes, "Because you're a pirate."

"Oh," Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, testing the waters, the limits of this man, this doctor who could drive lads like him crazy, "You want to turn pirate yourself? Is that it?"

John slams his fist against the bars in frustration. Sherlock is surprised at the outburst, "Never!"

He looks down, embarrassed at his rashness, "They killed my brother. They took Miss Morstan away. The two people I care about."

Sherlock smirks, "Revenge, interesting. Or is it the girl?" he sneers.

John looks away as he feels Sherlock's gaze assessing him, "Oh, I see! Well, if you're intending to brave all and hasten to her rescue and so the fair lady's heart, you'll have to do it alone, love. I see no profit in it for me. No profit."

Why would Sherlock see profit? Oh, poor doctor, trying to woo the bonny lass. Of course he'd have to change that, make him see the other side.

John looks away. . . makes a decision, "I can get you out of here."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "How? The key's run off, and I'm not inclined to sit and pick it till they drag me to the gallows."

John shakes his head and examines the cells, panting a bit, "My brother. . . he helped made these, he's a blacksmith. Those are hook-and-ring hinges. The proper application of strength, the door will lift free. Just calls for the right lever and fulcrum. . ."  
Sherlock watches John as he speaks, and it dawns on him—John is the spitting image of someone he's known in the past.

"Your name is Watson, ain't it?" he exclaims. John gives him a puzzled look.

"Yes. John Watson."  
Sherlock grins and stands up with new energy and enthusiasm, "John Watson, good, strong name. . . I'll tell you what, Mr. Watson. I've changed my mind. You spring me from this cell, and on pain of death, I'll take you to the Black Pearl and to the murderers of your brother."

He sticks his hand out, "Do we have an accord?"

John gives him a suspicious look. The deal seems too good. Sherlock keeps his hand out, still smiling all silver and gold. John shakes it.

"Agreed."

"Agreed! Now get me outta here! And call me Sherlock."

John looks around, figures out what he needs. He makes a chair his fulcrum, and levers the long bench under the door. Pushes down—it's hard work—but the cell door rises, and then falls forward, crashing down on the bench and chair. Sherlock is impressed. He steps out of the cell, looking into John's eyes. There's fire in them. Burning bright and fiery, not caring about the extreme act of felony and treason to the East India Company.

Fire that no one sees, not even that lass.

"Someone will have heard that," John reminds them of their current predicament, "Hurry."

John heads for the door. Sherlock searches the desk, cupboards.

"Not without me effects."

"We need to go!" John insists, keeping a watch with his axe out for anyone coming their way. Sherlock finds his pistol, sword belt, and compass. Straps on the belt, checks the shot in his pistol.

"Why are you bothering with that?" John points out.

"My business, John. As for your business—one question, or there's no use going," He joins John at the door of the prison hold, "Do you have the courage and fortitude to follow orders and stay true, in the face danger, and almost certain death?"

John tries to follow through Sherlock's speed of his speech, but is unable to do so, "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock smirks. Better than questioning his judgment was following it blindly, "That'll do."

Making out of the jail cells is child's play for John and Sherlock. John keeps his hands steady on his sword, ready to hack down anyone in their path. Sherlock likes it, the way John is playing protector to him, tricking himself into the thinking that it's all for him and not for that blasted girl.

"You won't be needing that," Sherlock points out, as they climb out of a deserted parapet. Sherlock takes out a rope strong enough to take their body weights, makes a loop out of it and with practised ease, he flings it across the wall and secures it. After testing the joint, he hands the rope to John, "You go first."

John gives him a sharp nod, trusting. Already. Sherlock wants to warn him. Pirate, shouldn't trust Sherlock of all people. If Sherlock was any decent, he would've not thought such thoughts about John Watson. But he was a pirate. No place for decent.

Sherlock strengthens the joint as John goes down further. Sherlock decides to follow, and then notices that John has left knots for him on the rope itself. More friction, less chance for slipping down the rope and having his palms skinned by it. Thoughtful.

When Sherlock takes the final five feet for a jump, John is waiting for him obediently.

"You didn't have to make knots on the rope, John."

"Can't have you slipping down," John replies casually. Sherlock feels something dark, deep in his gut at that as he stares at John in surprise.

"Oi!" comes a shout from the top of the parapet atop Fort Charles. Sherlock looks upwards at the call. A sailor is looking down at them, pointing and shouting. Sherlock hadn't counted on that.

John instantly reacts; throws the sword towards the top like a javelin, where it buries itself in between the fissure of the bricks making up the fort and simultaneously cutting the rope off. The sailor stares at dismay, as Sherlock and John make off.

"Seems like I did need that after all," John replies with a quick smile, gathering the rope quickly.

"You're far too cheerful for a man who's just lost his brother," Sherlock points out, mostly to remind John that they weren't going on a vacation or an adventure; they were going on a death-trial.

"And you're far too grim for someone who's getting their ship back," John remarks wryly. "And I'm not being cheerful; I'm just being polite. I do need to keep you in good humour, don't I?"

"Well, if that is really your intention, Mister Watson, then you can start with quitting politeness," Sherlock snaps. His attempts at reminding John of the seriousness of their situation fail, but maybe John already knows. Maybe all he's trying to do is add a bit of colour to it, so that they are not consumed by the dark ahead of them, "And concentrating on how to get the ship back. No ship, no girl, mate."

"Fine," John snaps back, clearly not happy to have his own olive branch thrown back at his face. Sherlock glares at him and rolls his eyes, "And it's Doctor Watson."

"Yes, Mister Watson," he has the dignity to scoff.

As they steal past the docks, they spot the Jolly Mon, four inches of water in the bottom as it squats low in the water, heeled to one side, creaking on its lines.

"Ah, there, there!" Sherlock exclaims happily, "Now there's a lovely sight!" He hops down into the boat merrily. Prepares to make way.

"I knew the Harbourmaster wouldn't report her. Honest men are slaves to their conscience, and there's no predicting 'em. But you can always trust a dishonest man to

stay that way. . ."  
Sherlock notices that John is standing, frozen on the dock, staring at the boat in dismay, his knuckles white and tight-lipped with unspoken refusal. There's something unsettling about seeing John this way. Sherlock frowns, feeling a sinking feeling in his stomach, and then casually gestures to him.

"Come aboard."

John jerks almost visibly and gulps, "I haven't set foot off dry land since I was twelve, when the ship I was on exploded," he regards the boat cautiously, "It's been a sound policy."

"No worries there," Sherlock says nonchalantly, pouting and trying not to sway unsteadily as he works his way with the ropes and the single sail that the boat has got, "She's far more likely to rot out from under us than succumb away to an explosion."

Sherlock's attempt at humour fails spectacularly as John grimaces and steels himself, steps into the boat as if it's going to capsize with the slightest movement. Sherlock hoists the sail with record speed.

"Besides," Sherlock continues to cheer John up again, "we are about to better our prospects considerably. Just like you bettered your limp."

He nods toward the H.M.S. Dauntless, looming in the harbour. John white-knuckles the gunwales, stares at the majestic lady, blinking bemusedly.

"We're going to steal a ship?" He asks in one breath, and then his eyes widen, "That ship?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "She's a woman, dearie. Give her some respect. . . and it's commandeer. We're going to commandeer a ship. Nautical term."

"It's still against the law," he says, not meeting Sherlock's eyes as the latter turns to him disbelievingly.

"So is breaking a man out of jail. Face it, John: you may say you'll never be a pirate, but you're off to a rip-roaring start," he smirks and then lowers his voice, leaning in closer to him. The pheromones of him, unlike anything Sherlock had ever countered even in his life with the supernatural. He takes in a whiff, "My advice—smile and enjoy it."

Before he can see John's disbelieving face, he turns away, preparing for launch. The Jolly Mon bobs its way across the bay, dwarfed against the H.M.S. Dauntless as they reach closer to her. John holds a stay line with iron fists as Sherlock tells him his plan.

"This is either crazy, or brilliant," he utters when Sherlock is finished.

The latter smirks, "Funny how often those two traits coincide."

The Jolly Mon nears the rudder of the much larger ship as Sherlock and John prepare for the next half of their plan.

* * *

 

Aboard the Dauntless, there's been a breakdown in discipline; about a dozen Navy sailors are gathered together on the main deck, playing dice. Murtogg and Mullroy among them.

Suddenly, Sherlock and John jump out, into the open—brandishing pistols.

"Everybody stay calm," Sherlock yells a raw-throated yell as he descends down the poop deck stairs and John jumps behind him to easily for a man of such short stature, only to prove to people that his left arm wasn't that bad and he was still in the prime of his life, which he obviously was, "We're taking over the ship!"

"Aye! Avast!"

Sherlock gives John a look at that, shakes his head: don't do that. John is subdued as he looks to Sherlock for guidance on how to be a pirate.

The sailors all look at them—and then burst out laughing. They grin, shake their heads. Sherlock stands there, grinning with them—but his gun is still level. Lieutenant Small steps forward.

"Are you serious about this?" He says with a grin. Sherlock moves his pistol across, points it at Small. Both their grins fade.

"Dead serious."

Small scoffs, "You understand this ship cannot be crewed by only two men. You'll never make it out of the bay." He says smugly, fighting the urge to succumb to laughter again. Sherlock is used to this, people laughing at him, and then crying later. He cocks his pistol.

"We'll see about that."

More guffaws from the crew. A couple sailors move forward, hands on swords—Small holds up a hand, still regarding the whole thing as a joke.

"Sir, I'll not see any of my men killed or wounded in this foolish enterprise."

"Fine by me. We brought you a nice little boat, so you can all get back to shore, safe and sound."

"Agreed. You have the momentary advantage, sir. But I will see you smile from the yard arm, sir."  
Sherlock gives them a completely false smile, "As likely as not," and then turns to his companion, "John, short up the anchor, we've got ourselves a ship!"

John snorts, "Well, that was easy!"

"People are ridiculously good at underestimating, my dear," he dips his voice so low that one can bury a body in it when all of them leave. John nods, following through the next part of the plan and ignores Sherlock's little endearments.

Sailors make their way down a rope ladder, crowd onto the Jolly Mon. John pushes hard against the windlass, to no avail. . . the anchor is too heavy for one man. Sherlock notices that.

"A little help?" Sherlock smirks at Small. He shrugs, gestures to Murtogg and Mullroy. The three men throw their weight into the windlass, and it turns. Sherlock's pistol is on them the whole time.

"I can't believe he's doing this," Murtogg whispers. The windless turns, bringing Mullroy into his view.

"You didn't believe he was telling the truth, either," he says irritably.

The windless turns some more, and there's Small. He turns and looks over his shoulder at John, "Do you have any idea, boy, what you're doing?"

They make another quarter turn, and then, John smiles, surprised at his own answer, "Oddly enough, no."

And he sprints away at Sherlock's calling.

Sherlock and John crank a capstan, raising the forward jib sail. It luffs and billows out. The huge ship inches forward slowly, pulled by just the one sail. Sherlock grins his most honest wolf-bright smile at John.

"Lookee there, love! We're underway now! All we need is a little bit of show. Now. . . do you trust me?"

John looks at him incredulously, "No!"

Sherlock is taken aback, "Oh. . . very well. We'll have to do something about that then."

"Why should I trust you? You're a pirate and you threatened—tried to kill Miss Morstan," he gulps in a sharp intake of breath, "You didn't leave me with a lot of options, did you?"

"Valid reasons, those. At yet you're embarking on a killer journey with me—a pirate—completely at my mercy," he smirks as John's bemused face.

* * *

 

As Sholto moves along, preparing the HMS Interceptor to go after the Pearl, concentrating on a manifest he gives orders to his sailors. Some of them are booting the rail guns, other filling the armoury in case they have to face a standoff with the fastest ship in the Caribbean. Alongside him is Governor Morstan, who glances over—

Sees the tiny Jolly Mon headed toward them, riding low in the water, overloaded with sailors. Beyond that, the Dauntless sails—albeit slowly—for open waters. He frowns, and then his mouth hangs open. Rushing to Sholto, he taps him urgently on the shoulder, "Commodore—"

"A moment."

Morstan does not look away from the ship now gaining the speed. "But—"

"Please."

At that, the Governor drops all pretence of politeness, "Damn it, man, it appears someone is stealing your ship!"

Sholto turns around, glances out at the bay. Sure enough, the Dauntless is on the move. Sholto takes a brass telescope from his belt, opens it, trains it on—

The main deck. He picks out John heaving the sails. He shakes his head

"Rash, John Watson, too rash for a military man. Should've known better, you."

And then he spots Altamont, at the rudder, casually examining it, giving the ship a sense of direction. Lowers the telescope, gritting his teeth together.

"That is, without doubt, the worst pirate I have ever seen," he says, and turns around to away, "Sailors, to the Interceptor!"

* * *

 

Out in the open sea, Sherlock leans on the wheel, relaxed; not much sailing to do with a following wind. John climbs up the poop deck with sure rapid steps that are in no way reminiscent of his limp at all. Sherlock eyes him admiringly, like a osprey watches the salmon fretting. The creamy skin now golden with the sunshine, the hairs on his chest almost invisible now. Oh, what a sight, what a sight. Sherlock can almost imagine it, the pink vulnerable skin underneath, hardened to nubs under his skilful touch. Soon, and John Watson will be another conquest added to his list—

Oblivious to Sherlock's dirty thoughts about him, John points: the sails of the Interceptor fill out, and the ship cuts through the water toward them like blade cutting through glass powdering it down to little shards," Here they come."

Sherlock does not look away. He looks at John's blue eyes fixed on something beyond his shoulder. Light and afire with something darker. Boy's true to his history, despite his limited knowledge.

Sholto's smaller ship quickly comes alongside the slow moving Dauntless. Its decks appear empty. Grappling hooks are thrown, and sailors draw the two ships together. His men swarm across.

Like a Greek God who can magically climb between the two ships without a change in his creases of his Navy uniform, Sholto hurries onto the Dauntless, passing his orders.

"Search every cabin, every hold, down to the bilges!"

Past the railing of the Interceptor, a single sentry stands watch—who is surprised to see a soaked Sherlock and John as they climb up over the side of the smaller ship, unseen. The sentry points his rifle at Sherlock as he struggles aboard. Sherlock squints at the rifle unsteadily, and gives him a false smile, "Oh. . . hello. Didn't see you there."

When the sentry doesn't budge, Sherlock tries a different alternative, "I like your badge."

Meanwhile, John tackles the Sentry from behind, covers his mouth in an instant. Sherlock is dazed.

"Can you swim?" John demands. The sentry struggles against him. John tightens his grip on him.

"Can. You. Swim?" He asks again.

"Oh for God's sake, John," Sherlock huffs, "remove your hand!"

John moves away awkwardly, "Sorry." The sentry wheezes, and then stands in attention.

"I'm going to ask you one last time," John looks him down, even if the sentry is taller than him, "Can you swim?"

"Of course, sir. Like a fish, sir. I grew up summers living in Dover, with my uncle, sir—"

John nods, "Good." Lifts the man up and throws him overboard. Quickly unties the ropes to the grappling hooks. Sherlock doesn't waste his time being amused, he cranks the capstan bars, raising the foresail—but John can sense a change in the air.

"What?" he demands. Sherlock gives him a brief smile.

"And you insist you aren't a pirate."

* * *

 

Sholto emerges from a gangway—and sees his other ship moving away. He realises that something was horribly wrong.

"Sailors! Back to the Interceptor!"  
But the distance is already too great. One brave sailor tries to swing across on a rope, Errol-Flynn style, but falls short with a splash. Sholto watches in horror and dismay alike as Sherlock waves, and shouts across the distance, waving his hat—

"Thank you, Commodore, for getting our ship ready to make way! We'd have had a hard time of it by ourselves!"

Sholto seethes, as none of the bullets that the sailors fire at them actually hit them. In spite of it all, his order to Small is measured:

"Raise the topsails. Clear up this mess."

Small hesitates in his response, "The wind is quarter from astern. . . by the time we're underway, we'll never catch them."

Sholto pauses, and then closes his eyes, hating himself for what he is going to say, "We need only to come about, to put them in range of the long nines."

Small looks surprised at the order—but relays it.

"Hands! Come about! Jackets off the cannons!" He turns to Sholto and whispers, "We are to fire on our own ship, sir?"

"I'd rather see it at the bottom of the ocean than in the hands of a pirate."

"Commodore, there's a problem."

Sholto looks around as the steersman turns the wheel. The Dauntless' course does not change one whit. He spins the wheel. It goes round and round, with no signs of slowing.

"He's. . . disabled the rudder chain, sir."

He looks away, closes his eyes, sinks his chin to his breast, "So it would seem."

The Interceptor dwindles with distance. Small watches it go, with some degree of admiration.

"He's got to be the best pirate I've ever seen."

Sholto reaches out, stops the spinning ship's wheel, "So it would seem."

The Interceptor makes for the horizon line in front of his eyes. With the time passage, the ship is gone, into the sun and horizon, and as are Sholto's hopes for rescuing Mary before the inevitable occurred.


End file.
